An excerpt from Amy’s book Wicked Bitch.
Throughout the bittersweet years, I have been through seven Harleys, a few men, a billion camels, a million miles, a river of tears, a good bit of whiskey, and a lifetime of highways. I have painted hundreds, probably thousands, of cars and trucks. Four and a half of the most recent years I spent weeping pathetic tears, for my body finally rebelled against all that paint I breathed, and I became stricken with all manner of autoimmune disorders, such as lupus. Through lots of Steroids and even chemotherapy-type drugs, I haunted the years that I wasn’t able to ride, mournfully admiring the fact that I made it to Sturgis and back to Arkansas, most likely with the onsets of life-threatening lupus torturing my body for over four thousand miles.
These words are typed by bony, scarred hands that once swung a paint gun in the rhythm of an artist and outworked any man, yet shake with fragility and curl with the throbbing pain of arthritis. The lean, mean body of a woman who could conquer any highway with steel-assed hours on a Harley, would fight any grown man, or fix any broken car is now a ghost of my fondest memories. I now live in a crippled wispy body that is actually killing itself from the inside with autoimmune diseases. Now my every waking moment echoes the whispers like butterfly wings of my life slowly slipping away.
Never again will I indulge in a chili cheeseburger-eating contest with my biker family or go back for a second plate of turnip greens and fried potatoes. These days, I consider myself lucky if I eat an apple and my daily handful of pills and don’t end up worshiping the porcelain god. Most mornings, I awaken with a strangling gasp on my lips at the blinding pain squeezing me like a vice. I take tiny little yellow pills of chemotherapy that make me wish I could die to feel better, just to stay alive.
I live in the quiet silent hours of darkness, prowling the realms of my mind through sleepless nights searching for somewhere to escape the pain. The long legs that once two stepped all night in 6 inch heels now often strain and quiver with the effort it takes to carry me to the bathroom. Never again will I pack up and head for Sturgis with just a dream, a prayer, and my Harley.
